Chapter Text
He was close to death when they finally, finally found him.
Pale and cold; his skin a deathly white and his breathing shallow – it was a miracle he was still alive.
Emma leant over him in desperation because not this again, not this – she couldn't see him suffer, see him dying, see him die, yet again. Tears formed in her eyes as she frantically whispered his name into his oblivious ear, hands stroking each side of his blood streaked face.
“Killian, come back to me.”
They slowly make their way back to the boat that would bare them back to Storybrooke, well, their Storybrooke at least; David and Robin taking turns of half carrying Killian along. Emma bore half the load – carrying him with them; refusing to let him go once, despite her exhaustion and Snow’s half-hearted protestations.
When they do return home, they breathe in the clean air with relief while calling an ambulance to take Killian to the hospital. They all follow the ambulance there, silent as the nurses rush around taking readings and stabilising him. Dr Whale appears and assures Emma that while Killian has taken a harsh beating, he was stable and should, should, pull through. Only time will tell.
An exhausted Regina and Robin take an exhausted Henry home for a well deserved rest, and Emma hugs her son tight before dropping a kiss on his forehead.
Looking over at Killian with a sad expression in his eyes and a reassurance of “It's gonna be ok, mom, he's gonna make it.”, Henry, her ever hopeful Henry, is gone and it's just Emma and her parents and a barely alive Killian lying pale in a white hospital bed.
Turning to her mother with scarcely concealed tears in her eyes she assures her parents that yes, she was fine, and yes, they could leave her and see baby Neal. Snow, obviously torn between seeing her baby son or staying to comfort her adult daughter, hesitates before embracing Emma and assuring her that they would be back within half an hour and to make sure to eat something. David hugs her tight and drops a kiss to her forehead before following his wife out the door.
As she watches her parents leave, Emma takes a deep breath and slowly sinks down into the chair beside Killian’s bed. It was hard seeing him like this, the self-proclaimed ‘survivor’ hooked up to a heart-rate monitor and a breathing machine; a tube emerging from his throat.
Letting the tears fall and grabbing his hand, feeling his chest move up and down beneath their entwined hands, she begins to catalogue his features: his face, his nose, his hair; right down do his hand and the way his fingers perfectly laced amongst hers.
She couldn't live without him. Her journey down to hell proved that.
Resting her head next to his she tells him stories of their adventures together, of heroes and villains, and of whispered vows of love and hope for the future.
When Snow and David return, they find Emma fast asleep by Killian’s own sleeping form, hands entangled with the slow, steady beeping of the heart monitor and the hiss of the breathing machine in the background.